The Pale Verdict
Elara. The name was called out by the clerk at the intake desk, not with warmth, but with the flat, administrative finality of a stamp being pressed into wet clay. I turned from the stacks of bound ledgers, my fingers still dusted with the gray powder of decaying paper, and walked toward the sound. The air in the Ministry of Records was always thick, a suspension of dust and old sweat that...
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